


Dinner Date

by Gia279



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cute, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, One-Shot, married, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gia279/pseuds/Gia279
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek always seemed to be the one doing all the cooking. Stiles wanted to have a nice dinner ready for him by the time he got home, maybe some candles and cuddling time. That's all he wanted, to do something nice for his husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner Date

Derek did all the cooking. He worked a full time job, same as Stiles, and when he got home, he made dinner. When he was off, he cooked breakfast, too. 

Stiles made sandwiches occasionally for their lunch on weekends when he was on night shift. When it was his turn to make dinner, or when he got in first, he ordered take out or delivery. Pizza, Chinese, Thai, whatever he found online that delivered, especially if there was a coupon for it.

It was a routine, one that Stiles hadn’t noticed until their three-year anniversary, when Derek earnestly asked if it was okay if they ate at a restaurant instead of him cooking. It had struck Stiles in that moment; every burger, lasagna, homemade taco, and steak dinner in the past two years _at least._ Derek had made them all.

He was a terrible husband.

They went out to eat and talked and enjoyed themselves, indulged in wine and each other’s company. They set the waitress into a fit of giggles when they told her it was their anniversary, and she gave them a steep discount, winking heartily at them as they paid. 

They went home and made out on the couch, while Derek had more wine—with wolfsbane in it, from Isaac—so that he could catch up to Stiles. They ate a piece of the large, decadent cake Lydia had sent and they exchanged gifts, kissed, and drank some more.

They were both this side of tipsy on their way up to their room, laughing and stumbling their way up the stairs, hands groping and on occasion missing their mark.

“That’s not my ass,” Derek muttered, mouthing at Stiles’s cheek when he missed his mouth.

“It’s not? It’s _not_.” He patted Derek’s thigh and slid his hands up. “We should find the bed,” he whispered loudly. “Cause the stairs are like, dangerous’n’shit.” 

“Please, your sexy talk. It’s making me weak.” Derek laughed, scooping him off his feet. 

At 2 AM when Stiles was awake and sober, and running his fingers over Derek’s back, he decided he was going to make Derek a spectacular dinner. Not this week or next, he had to cover Rucker’s shifts at the station, and he didn’t want it to seem like a belated anniversary gift.

 

It ended up being a month and a half later. Stiles took a half day and let his dad know why he was ducking out early. He swung by the grocery store and bought everything the website he found said he needed to make a pot roast dinner. 

He got sides and vegetables and spices and a _roasting bag_ , among other things. He had four hours before Derek even left work, and he planned on being prepared. 

On impulse, he grabbed a couple of taper candles and some glass stands for them. The cheap kind, to be sure, but Derek was more impressed by a good deal than expensive non-essentials, anyway.

At home, he set up his laptop on the counter and brought up the cooking website. He chopped carrots, onions, and rosemary, frowning before remembering where he put the thyme. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to have cut up the herbs, but he figured it didn’t matter either way and threw the onions and carrots into the roasting bag (which he’d opened into the pan) along with a cup of the beef broth.

Scott called when he was spreading the spices into the roast. 

“I’m rubbing on this meat more than I’ve rubbed my husband in a week! I don’t know what I’m doing,” he babbled, his voice rising hysterically. 

“Uh…” Scott exhaled loudly. “Well, I can come by and help. I’ll be right there.”

Stiles set his phone on the counter next to the sink and dumped the spiced meat and some cut up potatoes into the bag, followed by even more broth, and tied the bag off. 

“Here goes,” he muttered, putting the pan into the oven. 

That seemed _far_ too simple, but that’s what the instructions said to do. He double checked the temperature before moving on to make a salad. 

From scratch. Instead of from a bag.

He’d done this part often enough for his dad’s sake, so it was fairly stress free until he bumped his elbow against the cup of soda he’d set on the counter, accidentally knocking it into the sink, along with an assortment of utensils, the sponge, and the soap. The noise had him sighing, but he left the mess where it was, scooping the salad bits into a bowl to toss.

By the time he’d put a pot of macaroni on the stove and the salad in the fridge, Scott had arrived and let himself in, as was most of the pack’s habit. 

“Should I make rice, too? He can eat a lot, I should make rice as well. Or I could—I still have to cut up the French bread. Oh my god. I should have just made the bread.”

“You don’t know how to make bread,” Scott pointed out, leaning against the counter. “I think the macaroni and the salad is probably fine. He’s going to want to go for the meat, anyway. Do you still want to bake dessert, too?” he asked doubtfully. “You look, um, tired.”

Stiles scowled, running his hands through his hair and yanking. “I want to get everything _right_. He always has everything ready, and I _know_ he gets home at, like, five. He doesn’t take this long!” 

“Stiles, you should-”

“Help me bake some cookies!” 

“Can’t we just buy cookie dough?” Scott moaned, covering his face. 

“No! I want to make them from scratch! I have a recipe!” Stiles triumphantly held up a bag of chocolate chips.

“That’s not a recipe,” Scott pointed out, narrowing one eye. “That’s a _part_ of the recipe.”

“The recipe’s on the bag, dipshit,” Stiles snapped. “Go get me some bowls.”

 

They got absorbed in making the cookies—the first batch turned out too thin, naturally, and was horribly runny. Stiles couldn’t figure out where they’d gone wrong, but it didn’t matter. He set the bowl aside and got down the other big bowl, far bigger than they needed, and started again.

“Can you dump that down the sink? Use the disposal,” he added, wrinkling his nose as he cautiously turned on the mixer.

“I got it,” Scott muttered, swiping his finger through the wasted dough just to check. He upturned the bowl into the drain, flipped the faucet on, and flicked the switch for the garbage disposal. 

A _terrible_ grinding noise came from within, so horrible that Scott whined and slapped it back off, looking toward Stiles in shock.

“Something fell down the drain, probably a fork or something,” he said, exasperated. “Just pull it out and try again.”

Scott rolled his eyes and started sifting through the stuff in the sink. “Why’s there so much stuff in here anyway?”

“Why didn’t you move it before dumping the dough in there?”

“Because I figured it was all dirty anyway,” Scott huffed, sticking his hand into the sink drain. “Oh…shit.”

“What?” 

Scott was holding the battered carcass of Stiles’s phone. 

Stiles blinked at it. “Are you fucking _kidding me?_ ” he demanded, jumping half a foot in the air when something popped loudly behind him. He whirled around, still clutching the hand held mixer and spattering cookie dough all over the cabinets. 

The macaroni, left unattended, had begun exploding. 

“You get that, I’m going to, uh, get a rag, or something,” Scott said quickly, reaching under the sink to find a rag for the cabinets. He unplugged the mixer and set Stiles’s phone aside while Stiles rescued the noodles.

“You’re a _werewolf_ , couldn’t you smell them burning?” Stiles hissed, yanking the pot away from the burner. He looked down at the noodles, baring his teeth. “I hate you,” he breathed. 

“You can still make rice!” Scott said cheerfully, turning the sink back on—and snapping the handle right off. Water burbled up and began spreading rapidly over the counters. 

“Sc _ott!_ ” 

“I’m sorry, I’ll go shut off the water!” 

“Stop, stop, just try to plug it up or something, I think something’s burning!” Stiles turned to look for a clock—why didn’t they have a clock anywhere in this damn house—before reaching into Scott’s pocket and pulling out his phone.

Derek had been off work for ten minutes and would probably be home any second.

“You get the roast out,” Scott said, yanking his shirt over his head and pressing it to the veritable fountain of water coming from the sink. 

Stiles passed his own cookie batter-stained shirt over and reached for the oven mitts in time for a second horrifying **POP!** to come from the stove. With a weary sigh, Stiles bent double to peer into the oven.

Broth dripped down the window, so he pulled it open and found that the bag had burst. Somehow.

“Didn’t you put holes in it?” Scott wheezed, and Stiles’s head snapped up like a wolf scenting prey.

“I didn’t know I was _supposed_ to put holes in it!” he snarled, reaching up to jerk the dials into the off position.

“It’s probably still-” Scott began.

Stiles did not find out what it probably still was, because he slipped right onto his ass, sliding into Scott’s legs and knocking him to the ground across Stiles’s belly. 

He was gagging attractively when the front door opened.

“Stiles?” Derek called hesitantly. “Are you…okay?”

Stiles started to laugh.

“We’re in the kitchen!” Scott called, not bothering to get off of Stiles. Water began pouring off the counters.

Any moment there would be a tide. 

Derek crept toward the kitchen, looking around, toward the sputtering, gurgling sink, the cookie batter-stained cabinets, the ceiling which somehow also had cookie batter on it. He took in the sight of the macaroni pot, the oven that was gaping open and the burst roast bag. 

And lastly, he took in the sight of his husband and their mutual friend, shirtless and soaked on the floor, tangled together.

He took all of this in with a shuttered expression, until Stiles tried to speak and ended up wheezing instead. His face just _broke_ after that, laughter echoing off the walls.

“Very funny,” Stiles huffed, shoving at Scott until the idiot got the _hint_ and rolled off of him. Stiles sighed and set his head back down on the ground with a small splash. “I admit defeat,” he said to the universe at large. “I will never try to cook for my husband again.”

Derek walked across the floor, his work boots splashing all the way, and crouched next to his head. “Are you alright?” he asked, trying to stifle his snickering.

“I’m dandy.” This was addressed to the ceiling, as Stiles couldn’t quite look at him yet. “How was your day?”

“It went well,” he said, strained from holding in his laughter. “Scott, why don’t you go turn the water off and we’ll see about fixing the sink?”

“Sure,” Scott said breathlessly, bounding from the room.

“You wanna get up?” 

Stiles sighed heavily and finally looked at Derek. “I was going to have dinner for you.”

“I figured.”

“It was gonna be great.” 

“It’s…not bad at the moment.”

Stiles sighed again. “I think the noodles are on fire. I’m not sure if I turned the burner off.”

Scott went home after shutting the water off. Stiles and Derek threw every towel they’d accumulated over the years onto the kitchen floor and picked the roast apart together, straight from the pan, on the dining room table. They sopped up broth with the ripped apart French bread Stiles had picked up and he stopped feeling like an ass while they talked. 

The roast didn’t taste so bad, and the bread and salad were good, at least. The second batch of cookie dough was surprisingly good, so they ate that raw on the couch, huddled together. 

“Sorry,” Stiles whispered, scooping another spoonful up. “I was trying to –I just noticed that you’d been doing all the cooking.”

Derek shifted almost like he was uncomfortable, his eyes flitting away. “I don’t mind,” he said, rubbing his thumb up and down Stiles’s arm.

“It’s not fair, though. We’re supposed to split things like that, you know?” He snorted. “I think I made more work for myself.” He thought about the mess in the kitchen and felt exhausted to his bones. 

“I’ll help with that. But really, I don’t mind cooking, Stiles.” 

The intensity of the statement made Stiles narrow his eyes. “Why _don’t_ you mind?” he asked suspiciously. 

Derek’s eyes flicked away, then back. “I…like cooking.”

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Your dad told me I should keep you away from the stove,” he burst out, then let out a breath. “He told me about the time you started a fire while hard boiling some eggs and we agreed that I should keep you away from the stove.” His brows drew down. “I think he was right, considering the mess you made.”

“That’s not fair! I was like fourteen when that happened, and it was a _little_ fire. Just a small one, it hardly counts as a real _fire_.” Stiles sat rigidly for a moment, fuming. “I cooked for him all the time!”

“That was vegetarian or vegan stuff you found, though. Wasn’t it mostly prepared already?” 

“Mostly,” he admitted in a mutter. He shrugged stiffly. “Whatever, I won’t try to do anything like this again.”

“Thanks for the effort?” Derek offered, catching his chin. “The roast was good, and the cookie dough’s pretty great.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go clean up the mess. I seriously won’t touch that stupid thing again, unless I’m reheating.” He heaved himself up. “As long as you don’t mind me ordering in whenever it’s my turn, that’s fine.”

Derek smirked. “I don’t.” 

“And since you’re the werewolf, you can get the cookie dough and noodles off the ceiling.” Stiles laughed, rushing toward the kitchen. 

When he slipped on the wet towels, Derek’s laughter was louder than his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by a car commercial I saw three months ago. It struck suddenly while I was watching Spongebob and I couldn't resist.


End file.
